


my brightest star is named for you

by bean_me_up



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, gentle angst, just a sprinkle of waxing poetic about dance, much fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:41:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28397850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bean_me_up/pseuds/bean_me_up
Summary: “They say that if you want something with all your heart, the entire universe conspires for you to get it. . .  Just like in the stories, life also has its happy endings.  And if it’s not happy, then it’s not the end.  Show’s not over yet.”Seven years after the Roswell Ballet shut its doors for good, the entire company finds themselves back in town, staging a new show.  The pieces of this ballet feel like they want to be together, but somewhere between a cast of principals who, for the most part, had to be convinced to return to the Roswell Ballet, major choreography changes every two days, and a theater that's falling apart, something's gone wrong.
Relationships: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 27
Kudos: 53





	1. Pas de deux

Michael Guerin has turned showing up ten minutes late with a coffee in hand into an  _ art form _ . Today, however, he is a full hour early to rehearsals.

The pieces of this ballet  _ feel  _ like they want to be together, but somewhere between a cast of principals who, for the most part, had to be convinced to return to the Roswell Ballet, major choreography changes every two days, and a theater that's falling apart, something's gone  _ wrong.  _ Michael hasn't been this uneasy about a performance since he was eight years old and performing in the annual production of  _ The Nutcracker _ for the first time.

He kicks off his shoes and slings his bag onto the floor of row Q, then jogs over to the stage, hoisting himself up to stand front and center, looking out at the empty theater. He goes through some basic stretches, then takes his place for the top of the show.

The music, ethereal and haunting, sweeping strings and glittering bells, and a high, fragile melody line carried by the flutes, is ingrained in his brain at this point, so he doesn't even bother trying to figure out the sound system. Michael counts down in his head, holding his pose, one foot crossed in front of the other, one hand stretched to the ceiling, the other held at his side. He tilts his head up, getting into character, closing his eyes. Michael Guerin may be on an empty stage in a theater that's been all but abandoned for the last seven years, but  _ Draco _ is a man with the wide, vast expanse of earth and sky at his fingertips. He counts down the last four beats before throwing everything he has into the series of leaps and turns that gets him to center stage. He feels like he's flying, like he's weightless and the ground can't hold him down.  _ Draco _ bumps into an imaginary Liz, his  _ Selene,  _ and he mimes out their hesitant first meeting, circling each other, sizing each other up, getting closer and more playful with every round. As the music swells, loud and energetic and joyfully chaotic, he runs to her, arms open to catch her as she flings herself into his arms. 

Michael marks out the next section of the pas de deux while counting out loud, making mental notes of where  _ exactly  _ he and his limbs needed to be in order to support Liz. Their duet ends with Michael on one knee in front of Liz in a penché, looking at one another, taking a moment to breathe together before the rest of the company makes their entrance.

The doors to the theater burst open, breaking the peace and quiet, and Michael stands, brushing dust off the knees of his sweats. The house lights are off, so it's hard to see whoever's walking toward the stage. They call out a questioning "Hello?" in a voice that snaps Michael back to the heyday of the Roswell Performing Arts Center, to holding hands in the dark of the wings during performances, to giggly makeouts tucked among yards and yards of tulle and silk, to breathless kisses hidden behind set pieces in the prop shop. He'd  _ left,  _ gone without so much as a goodbye and had never looked back, never picked up the phone to call, and yet here he is, walking in like no time had passed at all.

"Alex?"

* * *

Seven years older looks  _ good  _ on Alex. He's filled out, his jaw more angular, biceps more pronounced, but his messy hair, his dark eyebrows, those oh-so-expressive eyes haven't changed a bit.

Michael shoves his hands in the pockets of his sweats. He's always aware of how his body is positioned, what story his posture and the set of his jaw tell the world, but right now every sense is heightened. He leans into it, leads with his hips with a slow, casual step, shoulders slouched, every pore oozing nonchalance that he simply does not feel.

"It's been a while."

Alex just nods, once, sharply, decisively. "It has."

They both stare at each other for a moment, then exhale at the same time, as in sync as they'd always been.

"So you're back." Statement. Cooly delivered. Nonchalant. He's  _ fine. _

"Haven't been dancing for a while, but I got the call that the theater was reopening and signed on as Mimi's assistant."

"Assistant choreographer, huh?"

"Figured I owed it to myself and a lot of other people to come back for this. And, well, can't exactly dance on stage anymore."

Michael frowns at this, tilting his head in question. Alex leans down to rap his knuckles against his right leg. The hollow  _ thunk  _ of plastic and metal rings out in the empty theater and Michael can feel his face fall. He opens his mouth to ask,  _ how, when, who?  _ but Alex is already brushing past him to slip past the wings to the green rooms.

* * *

Alex avoids Michael for the next half hour, heading straight for the rehearsal studio instead. He spends a little while at the barre, warming up and stretching, then pulls out his choreography notes and paces around the open expanse of the studio, placing imaginary dancers on their marks and trying to visualize the scene. The overhead lights flicker on and off, almost in time to the music playing from his phone's tinny speakers. Alex sighs, looking up at the ceiling with dust in the crevices of beautiful crown molding and paint starting to crack and flake around the edges of the fluorescent light fixtures. The Roswell Performing Arts Center had always been immaculate, taken care of with love and precision, but since opening night of  _ Romeo and Juliet  _ seven years ago, and the  _ accident _ , and everything else that had followed on that awful,  _ awful _ night, the building had been all but abandoned. Boarded up and locked shut, no one had set foot in here until Helena Ortecho had decided to stage a reopening.

She'd happily stepped back into her role as artistic director, making all the calls to bring the cast of  _ Romeo and Juliet  _ back to the Roswell Ballet. Alex had been the last to sign on. He hadn't danced in  _ years,  _ not while he was in the Air Force, and certainly not after losing his leg. Whatever he had been born with, that inner drive to move, to channel everything he was into motion,  _ pirouettes  _ and  _ grand jetés  _ and  _ fouettés,  _ the part of him that felt something light up inside every time he stepped into a studio, had died opening night, crashed and crumbled to the ground and shattered along with the ornate chandelier that had fallen from its rig.

The lights shut all the way off, leaving Alex in the dark. It seems fitting, like the theater itself is trying to tell him he has no business being here. But before he can pack up his things and text his apologies while on the next bus out of town, the lights turn on again and he can hear footsteps and voices approaching the door.

* * *

The corps de ballet is meant to move as one smooth, fluid body, every motion coordinated in beautiful synchronicity. Liz grimaces as a pair of dancers nearly topple to the ground after knocking into each other during a set of piqué turns in opposing directions. 

"This is a  _ disaster, _ " she whispers to Michael, who's sitting on the floor next to her. They're tucked in a corner of the studio and she's got a leg propped up on his shoulder to stretch out. He wraps a gentle hand around her ankle to steady her and shrugs.

"Mimi's changed the choreography again. Their entrance was from the  _ left  _ yesterday." He runs his free hand through his hair in vague distress as Mimi calls out instructions in the middle of a sequence, causing the dancers' neat rows to blur into chaos. One nearly crashes into Kyle and Maria, who are waiting by the far wall of the studio for their entrance. " _ Fuck. _ "

Liz pulls her leg off his shoulder and leans in to whisper in his ear instead. "Mimi's been having choreography meetings with my mom  _ every day  _ this week. From the yelling, I assume there are some  _ differences of opinion  _ when it comes to the choreography."

Michael groans, hanging his head. "We should've just done  _ Nutcracker  _ for our big comeback."

Liz pats the crown of his head comfortingly. "Now where's the fun in that, Mikey?"

* * *

The next piece has every dancer on stage. Among the corps' swirling gauzes and silks in deep blues and shades of gold,  _ Draco  _ tells  _ Selene  _ his plan to map out the stars, to chart the universe above them.  _ Selene  _ uses her magic to help him, offering to bring the stars themselves down to him to tell their stories. 

It's a beautiful scene, grand and expansive and intimate and small in turns, highlighting the romance between Draco and Selene, setting their love story among the swirling stars.

Or, at least, it should be. Helena and Mimi seem to take turns in stopping rehearsal every thirty seconds. The frustration is palpable, growing with every new change and interruption.

Maria rolls her eyes when Helena stops the music in the middle of a lift. Kyle sets her gently back down, sighing deeply as Helena changes the formation for the corps  _ yet again. _

"One more run through and we'll have a five minute break!" Mimi calls out as everyone shuffles back to their starting positions.

* * *

Hours later, when rehearsals are finally done, Michael hurries to change and grab his bag so he can find Alex before he leaves. He bumps into Liz and Maria in the building’s lobby as he searches.

“Have you guys seen Alex?”

“Back offices, I think,” Liz says, tiredly, running a hand through her gel-sticky hair.

Michael nods this thanks and sets off toward the cluster of tiny offices in the back of the building.

* * *

It's a little bit like walking through a ghost town. Back before the accident, when the Roswell Ballet had used the building every day for rehearsals and classes and performances, there were always people in the hallways. Even the offices in the back had seen their fair share of traffic, students' parents coming in to pay fees or demand that their children get better roles, different pieces of the creative team bustling about, trying to make magic happen for the stage. It had been loud and chaotic and  _ alive  _ and now it's empty.

Michael tugs his open sweatshirt a little closer to his body with a little shiver. This place had felt like  _ home  _ for so many years. And now it's cold, and it's not home to anyone except the dust bunnies. That chapter had closed when the first board was nailed over the door. At first, he'd been lost, no job, no place to live, no one he could lean on.

And then Sanders had come along. Offered him a job, training. And so Michael had traded dance shoes for a mechanic's toolbox, the rhythm of steps and sequences for the satisfying purr of an engine that's finally running again. It's not the same. And it never will be, but he can never be anything but grateful to Sanders for everything he'd done _. _

* * *

He finds Alex in the practice studio. The fluorescents are off, the only light coming from the full moon streaming through the open windows. Alex is at center, shirtless and in a pair of well-worn joggers.

And he's dancing. Gentle turns, every plane of his face and body catching the light as he spins, always landing perfectly. Every step he takes is careful,  _ deliberate,  _ graceful and  _ beautiful.  _ He's ethereal, like something from another planet, another universe, created just to  _ move,  _ to  _ dance.  _ Every breath he takes seems to be in sync with the soft piano wafting from the speakers. Michael can't move. Can't breathe. He wants to reach out, call out, make himself, his presence  _ known.  _ To let Alex know that he's  _ here,  _ he's always been  _ here.  _ He can't look away.

Alex sweeps across the floor, filling the space, making it his. Michael takes half a step through the open doorway when the music comes to an end and Alex stops, breathing just a little heavier from the exertion. The way Alex moves has changed a little, the way he avoids landing on his right leg, the way he stays more grounded, strong and steady on solid earth. Michael's next tentative step hits the floorboard that's been squeaky since around 2003, and freezes.

Alex freezes too, turning sharply to look at Michael. He relaxes. They both exhale on the same breath. Alex doesn't move, just keeps looking at Michael like he's staring into his soul. Michael walks toward him, soft-footed, careful.

A piece starts up, something a little more modern, still soft piano, but with a pared-down simplicity, a high, high melody line with a deep accompaniment line of simple chords. Once they're in each other's space, their hands reach out at the same time. Alex smiles, a gentle quirk of the lips and Michael feels the breath leave him in a rush.

They'd danced together before. After hours, when everyone else had cleared out of the studios, to whatever songs Alex had on his iPod. It had been fun, back then, playing around with whatever technique they'd learned in class, bending it, transforming it into something for themselves. All those years ago, they'd seen nothing but possibility in the empty space around them. They're a little more cautious, now, like they're sizing each other up again, feeling out the safe places to step where the ground won't crumble beneath their feet.

Dance, at its heart, is an act of devotion. It's pain and frustration and insecurity knit together with joy and love and wonder into something that is _transcendent,_ a shared story on sacred ground. Michael and Alex were always so good at that sort of sharing, the wordless language that they created for each other, two kids who found _home_ in an empty room with a mirrored wall, leaning on each other because it just felt so _right._

Their problems were never for a lack of devotion. Michael and Alex spent years training their bodies to dance, to move and spin and lift and extend and  _ support,  _ but they'd never worked at actually using their words. Alex had walked away without a goodbye, and Michael couldn't put together the words to call him back, to ask him to stay.

When the song ends, Michael and Alex find themselves in the same space, sharing the same breath, but the moment shatters the second Alex closes his eyes and takes a step backwards.

"I can't do this. Not again." And with that, he turns on his heel and walks out the door, leaving Michael standing in the middle of a dark, empty room, the mirror throwing his own image back at him.

* * *

Michael straightens, comes back to his neutral. He can feel the day's work setting into a dull ache. His feet hurt from hours of rehearsal, and he's tired beyond belief. And Michael feels  _ old,  _ like he can feel the weight of the years on him. He's reminded that he may be able to turn and leap and lift but his knees crack in the mornings and his back hurts more than it ever used to and his hands are scarred and calloused from years of hard work. And maybe those same years that weigh on his spine at the end of a long day are the same years that close the space that could have ever held  _ Michael and Alex.  _ In ballet, everything is  _ time.  _ A missed cue means crashing into another dancer, letting your partner fall to the ground, throwing beautifully choreographed dance into disarray and chaos. Michael and Alex both know how to be the supportive partner, where to place a hand on a hip, a leg, an arm to keep another dancer steady, how to stay strong and grounded while doing it. But neither of them ever learned what it takes to leap, to fly, and to trust that someone will catch you at the end of it. 


	2. Aries

Dancers are superstitious people. Sometimes, it’s little individual things, like the way Maria always finishes off her hair with exactly three spritzes of her favorite brand of hairspray, or the way Max has kept the same comb in his dance bag since he was ten, or the way Kyle always makes a little mark with a sharpie on the inside of his ballet shoes. And sometimes, it’s a collective superstition. The Roswell Ballet always starts their shows _exactly_ seven minutes past the time listed on the tickets and _every_ dancer has to have at least one safety pin tucked away in their costume _somewhere._ There’s also the superstition that a bad last dress rehearsal is a good omen, a sign that opening night will end with a standing ovation.

If that’s the case, then their collection of bad rehearsals is enough to guarantee them standing ovations every night for the entire run of the show. Now, the _first_ few times they had rehearsed this part of the show, it had been a _delight_ to hear Alex telling Kyle to “die _quicker_.” Now, with fatigue setting in, evident in the biting sarcasm bleeding into Alex’s directions, the increasing sloppiness of Max’s movements, the tick in Kyle’s jaw that isn’t quite going away, the glare Isobel is leveling at anyone and everyone around her, Michael is considering pulling the fire alarm, just to free them all.

This piece should have been an easy one. He and Liz spend most of their time tucked into a corner of the stage, watching the story of _Aries_ play out. In the early rehearsals, when Mimi and Helena had been piecing together the choreography, it seemed like everyone had fit into their parts naturally. Kyle had always been one of the best at leaps in their company, making him perfect for the part of Aries, the ram, Max and Isobel were _actual_ siblings playing the twins of Phrixus and Helle, and Max even got to kill Kyle at the end of it, which was probably the culmination of at least three of his teenage fantasies.

But Alex isn’t happy with it. He tells them as much, as he finally, _finally_ releases them for the day. He doesn’t look at Michael. Not _once_ during the hours they had just spent in the same room. The only time he’d even _talked_ to Michael was when he’d told him to stay further downstage during the piece. It _hurts,_ because Alex’s attention is like a spotlight, bright and burning hot and blinding in its intensity, energizing and illuminating and _exciting._ And Alex’s pointed cold shoulder feels like he’s left in the dark. Michael suppresses a shiver as he brushes past Max to hurry out of the room.

* * *

Michael and Liz had always worked well together as dance partners. There’s an intangible sort of connection, a trust and shared silent language that they’d developed over the years. It had taken _work_ at first; he’d dropped Liz more times than he’d like to admit to, and Liz had definitely returned the favor with misplaced knees and feet to the softer parts of his anatomy, but now, they’re in sync. They’ve moved past the days of having to count out loud or talk through choreography, and even seven years later, their partnership still _works._

Alex watches them dance with an eagle eye. He’d scheduled small rehearsals to work out the kinks of the piece, and tonight it’s Michael and Liz’s turn under the microscope. Problem is, Alex _knows_ Michael. He can’t get away with a damn thing, not a sloppily articulated foot on a tendu or the slightest wobble when he lands a pirouette _._ Alex is fluent in the language of _Michael Guerin,_ knows exactly when he’s strong on his feet and when he’s hiding a mistake, when he’s in character and when he’s just going through the motions while his mind wanders.

Back in the _before,_ before the ballet had closed and seven years had led them down different paths, far, _far_ away from one another, Alex’s uncanny ability to read him like a book had been a blessing. Michael hadn’t needed to _tell_ him when he was having a bad day, or when he hadn’t eaten nearly enough to sustain him through rehearsal, or when the chaos inside him was threatening to be overwhelming. Alex had always just _known,_ known when to hug him close and when to give him space, when to slip an extra granola bar into his dance bag, when to tug him into some forgotten storage closet after rehearsal for a few quiet moments, just breathing together, Alex’s hands warm around Michael’s.

“If you move your hand up more, and follow that with the rest of your torso, your line will look cleaner.” Alex’s hand is warm through the thin fabric of his t-shirt as he places one hand under his outstretched wrist and another on his ribs and moves him gently into position. It’s a fleeting touch, neutral and impersonal, and Michael desperately wants to read something into the map of fingers against the muscles of his side, the brush of a palm against the soft skin of his forearm. But dance is a physical language. And while he and Alex could fill volumes with everything they’ve professed to each other within the four walls of an unlit studio, Alex’s touch right now is the emotional equivalent of a grocery list, routine and unremarkable.

Michael’s a professional. He’s been dancing for _years,_ and he knows better than most how to leave the rest of the world at the door and turn his focus to dance. It’s harder when the thing he’s trying to ignore is three feet away, correcting Liz’s form in her arabesque.

When Alex is finally satisfied with what they have, Liz all but sprints out of the studio, calling back something about a family dinner she’s late for, but Michael hangs back, slouched against the doorway as Alex gathers his things. They’d left things unfinished back then, and the bitter taste of avoidance still stains their present day, but they don’t have to walk away from each other, not this time. And if Alex is willing, maybe not ever again.

“You should go home.” Alex says, leafing through a haphazard stack of notes, not looking up. “Full company rehearsal is early tomorrow.”

“Alex--”

“I _told_ you already--”

“Can we _talk?_ Please.”

Alex stuffs the notes into his bag with a huff. “ _Fine._ Not here though.”

“We can go back to my place.”

* * *

Michael drums his fingers against his truck’s steering wheel the entire drive over, an anxious motion he wouldn’t normally indulge in, constantly checking the rearview mirror to see if Alex is following like he’d said he would. He’s not sure how this is going to go, what he’s meant to say, what he’s going to hear. But Alex’s headlights are bright through his back window, and that feels a little bit like hope.

* * *

The fairy lights Isobel had forcibly hung up over his makeshift patio, tucked against his Airstream, are bright against the night sky, the little splashes of light painting themselves onto the sweating bottles of beer in their hands. Michael watches Alex pick at the label for a second, two, three, _four_.

“Where did you go?”

Alex blinks in confusion, looking up from the bottle. “I’m right here, what do you mean?”

“That night. Seven years ago.”

His fingernails are back to worrying at the edge of the label, prying it away from the glass. “Michael, you have to understand.” Alex takes in a shaky breath, holds for a full _two three four five six seven eight_ with his eyes closed, then lets it all out in a rush, his whole body deflating with the motion. “I _had_ to. I got home that night and the enlistment papers were taped to my bedroom door, and I -- “ Alex’s fingers tighten around the bottle, a white-knuckled grip that threatens to shatter the glass. “I saw my only option in front of me and I took it.” He stares at the ground for a long minute then looks back up at Michael. “But I came back.”

The warm glow of the fairy lights reflecting off Alex’s face, his hair, his _eyes,_ earnest and alight with something Michael won’t let himself read into, is too much to look at. “You said you came back because Mimi called.”

“Mimi did call. She asked me to come back, way before rehearsals even started, even before the cast had signed on. She’d heard about my leg but she still wanted me involved. I said no. She called again, later, when _you’d_ agreed to do the show. Said she figured it might take more than ballet to bring me back. And I said yes.”

Michael raises his head sharply at that; Alex is still _looking_ at him. “You really came back? For _me?”_

Alex nods, once. He opens his mouth to say something, but closes it again, swallowing hard and dropping his gaze to the frayed edge of his beer bottle’s label. “Walking away was the last thing I wanted to do. But I had to. I _had_ to, Michael.”

Michael tugs a rough hand through his hair in frustration. “You keep saying you _had_ to Alex, what the _fuck_ does that mean? You _had_ to leave, no goodbye, no explanation? You _had_ to let me figure out that you’d enlisted, left town, through overhearing Liz and Maria? And, what, you _had_ to go seven years, not _one_ phone call or text message or email or _anything?_ Like it was _nothing?”_

“Michael--”

“If it hadn’t been for Mimi and Helena putting on this show, would you have even come back?”

His chest hurts. The anger, the hurt, the _sadness,_ for being left behind, for being _forgotten_ , feel like they’re about to tear themselves out of his ribcage, leave it empty and hollow in their wake. He swallows hard, trying to will his heart to slow, his breathing to even. He should be over it by now. It’s been seven _years_ and he should have accepted his place in Alex’s history. They’re just ghosts to each other, now.

“It was almost you,” Alex says quietly, barely above a whisper. He’s still not looking at Michael, still staring at the earth between his boots, still fiddling with the damn bottle label. “It was almost you. That night. The accident. And if I had to make the choice again, choose between _you_ or being with you? I don’t know that I could ever do anything different.”

“Alex. . “

Alex clears his throat, blinks his eyes clear. “It’s getting late. I should let you get to bed.” He offers Michael a soft smile as he turns and walks away. Michael watches him cross the short distance to his car. The crunch of Alex’s feet come to a quiet halt just in front of his car door.

Alex looks back.

“Goodnight, Michael.”

* * *

The story playing out in the rehearsal studio is _beautiful._ The corps is one gorgeous, coordinated mass of movement, the sea and the sky in turn, the other principals have finally shaken out the kinks of the piece, settling into their characters and choreography, and honestly, Michael doesn’t have to do that much acting to look impressed by the scene he’s watching.

Alex is watching with the barest hint of a pleased smile around the edges of his mouth. Michael supports Liz through a graceful turn and arabesque with steady hands at her waist as the music swells, bright and energetic. Kyle, Isobel, and Max, playing Aries, Helle, and Phrixus, cut a diagonal through the corps, crossing the stage with a chassé, leap, turn, chassé, leap, turn in sequence, with Helle slowly slipping from the rhythm with every repetition. The corps seems to edge threateningly closer and closer to her as she starts to fall away. The music reaches a desperate crescendo, before dropping to silence for a moment as Isobel gets swallowed by the waves and tides of the sea. Kyle and Max turn back just as a single flute picks up the melody again, and the scene on stage turns haunting as Aries pulls forward, continuing his path onwards, upwards, _away,_ and all Phrixus can do is watch helplessly as his sister is swept away. The orchestra joins in again, softer this time, a little more somber, as they reach their destination.

Neither Mimi nor Helena reach for the _pause_ button on the sound system even once, and Alex hasn’t spent his time scribbling furious notes for corrections upon corrections onto a sea of post-it notes. Michael steals glances at Alex every now again, watching him watch the other dancers. Their eyes meet exactly once, and Alex raises one dark eyebrow and points back toward the scene on stage with the eraser end of his pencil, but there’s amusement in his eyes, and Michael fights to keep a straight face as he re-focuses on the ballet.

Michael and Liz cut a wide circle around the stage with a series of turns and leaps, holding hands whenever possible, always connected. Max makes a smaller circle in the opposing direction around center stage, gentle piqué turns as he prepares to sacrifice Aries to Zeus. The orchestra sustains a single chord as he strikes a killing blow and the ram is swept away to the stars by the corps. Max makes his exit soon after, and the music drops to the single flute line again, with Michael and Liz in the far corner, watching Kyle’s short solo. It’s expressive and heartbreaking, a short story of duty and guilt, the bittersweet triumph of having been able to save the twins from their fate, but only delivering one of them to promised safety. The piece ends with the corps sweeping the ram away with them as they exit, and Draco and Selene making their way to center stage again, soft and gentle, almost as if afraid to tread the same ground that had hosted a tale like Aries’. The music doesn’t end so much as it dies down into nothing, silence swallowing the last dregs of the lingering high E flat.


	3. Taurus

The Roswell Performing Arts Center is one of those old buildings that has _history_ carved into every inch of it. There’s at least fifteen different shades of glitter stuck in the crevices of the costume room. The second vanity from the left in green room two still has a burnt smudge from when Isobel had gotten careless with her hair straightener once. The floor of the prop shop has a deep purple stain in the center of it from when Rosa had gotten into a fight with her mom and knocked over a can of paint as she stormed out of the room. The doorjamb of the storage closet still has Kyle and Liz’s initials carved into it from back when they were fifteen. Maria had placed a tiny crystal for luck in the toolbox that always stayed in its taped-off corner backstage, and as far as Michael knows, it’s still there. And the colorful stains on the vinyl floor of one of the dressing rooms, from when Michael and Alex had stayed late to help Mimi color the entire company’s shoes vibrant shades of red and orange and yellow and pink, the very spot on the floor where Michael and Alex had shared their first kiss, is still there. No amount of mopping or trampling feet or years passing by had erased it. Just like everything else in the damn theatre. The building just held onto its memories, kept them enclosed within its walls, time capsules to moments gone by.

Except the stage. The marley had been replaced, the curtains looked new, all the bars and wires and other equipment had been repaired. It looked like _new._ Like the one story the building didn’t want to keep had been wiped from the place.

Michael’s still in his street clothes, walking around the stage with soft steps, getting a feel for the fresh layer of marley. It’s bouncy, just a little squishy, just a little sticky. Soft enough to protect their knees and the rest of their joints as they land leaps and lifts, hard enough that their shoes have solid ground.

“If you leave dusty footprints on the new floor, Sanders is going to _kill_ you and I’ll have to let him,” Alex calls out as he walks down the left aisle and takes the stairs to get onto the stage.

“I took my shoes off.” Michael lifts his foot so it’s at Alex’s face level and wiggles his sock-clad toes. Alex grins and bats his foot away with a light hand. “So what do you think of the new floors?”

Alex walks a small circle around Michael, steps carefully, bounces a little in place as he finishes the round. “It’s a good floor. Better than the temporary matting we had on before.”

Michael hums. “The entire stage looks. . . new.”

“New paint. Replaced some hardware. Guess they just wanted a fresh start.”

“Maybe a fresh start isn’t such a bad thing.” Michael shrugs.

Alex shakes his head. “New paint can’t erase history. But it can. . . smooth it out. Give us space to tell a new story on the same stage.”

“Why, Alex Manes, a dancer _and_ a poet.”

Alex rolls his eyes and glances down at his watch. “The only thing I am right now is _late._ Come on.” And with that, he grabs Michael by the hand and pulls him along to rehearsal. Michael decides not to remind him that his boots are still by the stage.

* * *

The next vignette is an exercise in contrast, and for once, Michael has the easier side of things. There are two pairs dancing on stage, Michael with Liz, and Max with Maria. The story of _Taurus_ isn’t an easy one to act out. Max plays _Zeus_ , miming a transformation into a bull, who then whisks away Maria, playing _Europa._ As dance partners, they still have to communicate in all those little unspoken ways on stage, trusting each other completely. But it has to look like a _fight._

Michael and Liz have it easier. They get to float around the stage, trading soft expressions and smiles, a gentle antithesis to the battle raging center stage.

Rehearsal is _long_ and _tiring_ and the hours pass them by before Michael can even notice, the sun is setting and a _very_ sweaty Max is leaning against the wall next to him.

“So, uh, still down to hit the gym after this?”

The back of Max’s head smacks against the wall with a hollow _thud,_ and he sinks further into his slouch, letting the wall bear most of his weight. “Don’t even _joke_ about it.” Max scrunches his nose. “Also, we’ve _never_ gone to the gym together before.”

“I’ll get better comedy material next time.”

“Stand up’s just not your calling.”

“I’m a _dancer,_ Max, I do my best performances with my mouth _shut.”_

“ _Oh,_ that’s _not_ what I’ve heard from--”

“ _Isobel,_ don’t _start--”_ Michael makes a half hearted attempt to nudge her away.

“ _Isobel, please_ start.” Max grins, albeit tiredly. His grin quickly droops into a cartoonishly childish pout. “Michael never tells me anything.”

“I’m not about to include the details of every hook up in a fucking _letter.”_

“You had my number, you could have texted. Just ‘cause _I_ wanted to send you letters doesn’t mean you had to send any back.”

Michael resists the urge to stick his tongue out at Max. “Wasn’t sure you knew how to _use_ a cell phone, _grandpa_.”

_“Boys,”_ Isobel interjects with a warning tone. “Play nice. Now, last one to get changed gets to buy me dinner. Let’s go!”

Michael exchanges a look with Max and they roll their eyes at their sister in sync.

“You know,” Michael says as he and Max head towards the locker room, “Just once, maybe _she_ should buy _us_ dinner.”

“Never gonna happen, man.” Max claps Michael on the shoulder and heads for the showers.

* * *

It’s nice having Max and Isobel back in town. They’d left when the Roswell Ballet had closed, done rounds of auditions, eventually ending up somewhere in Idaho. But they’d kept in touch. _Aggressively._ Isobel would give him about three hours to respond to a text before she’d start calling until he picked up. Max wrote letters. And kept writing letters. Until eventually, Michael responded to one. He’d tried so hard back then to shake off anything and anyone associated with the Roswell Ballet. But Max and Isobel considered him a brother and cheerfully pestered him until he sent them a terse reply. Eventually it got easier. His letters got longer than a single paragraph, he texted Isobel _first_ for once, and they even bullied him into a few video calls. He wouldn’t admit this, even on his deathbed, but just _seeing_ Max’s unopened letters on his table, feeling his phone vibrate with another picture of Isobel’s brunch was a blessing in those months after the ballet closed. He had two people who cared about him, and though they had been hundreds of miles away, it still felt good.

He never told them about what happened that night, and they knew better than to ask. They’d been backstage with the rest of the company, taking their time to take off their makeup and grab some water and revel in the bright, lively chaos of a green room after the curtain had fallen to thunderous applause. But Michael and Alex had been on stage, helping Rosa touch up the paint on one of the set pieces that had gotten scratched during the performance. Rosa had left to get the sealant for the acrylic. Alex had tugged Michael into the dark of the stage right wings, pressing him up against the black wall to kiss the remnants of lipstick off him. And then Alex’s dad had appeared, demanded that Michael come out and help him fix the rigging for the chandelier. Jim had gone over instead, making some quip about not making his dancers do any heavy lifting during the run of a show.

Someone should have noticed. Why the Roswell Ballet’s most reluctant volunteer and the man who owned the building and managed the business of the company were the two people fixing the rigging.

It had taken Jim _one, two, three, four, five_ steps to cross the stage, another _six and-a seven_ to grab the rope in Jesse’s hand. There was a rest on _eight,_ like the theater was holding her breath. 

_One._

The chandelier had crashed down, a bright, twinkling din. 

Alex had been frozen. Michael remembers Alex being _frozen,_ stuck in place, _still_ in a way he was never meant to be. Then Michael had grabbed him by the hand, pulled him away, running to call for help.

* * *

Besides the large rehearsal studio, there are a few smaller studios in the building, mostly for classes or individual rehearsals. Studio B is Michael’s favorite. It’s east facing, with a huge window to let the sunshine in. Which makes early morning rehearsal a _little_ more tolerable.

It’s just him and Liz with Alex, nailing down some of the choreography, getting everything smooth and easy. Liz is a great partner, even if she does spend just a _little_ too much time flirting with Max nowadays, and they’re having one of those rehearsals that feels _energizing_ rather than tiring. There’s easy laughter and bright sunshine and by the end of it, he feels _good_ about the piece. Liz presses a kiss to his cheek as she skips out of the room (probably to go quote Shakespeare with Max, or something equally gag-inducing).

Michael looks at the open expanse of the room, light and airy and warm. It feels a little like _something_ is in the air, happy and energetic and new and familiar all at once. Alex is tucked into a corner with his notes, sunshine catching the outline of his hair, the planes of his face. The smooth wood floor looks like an invitation and Michael can’t help but give in to the _thrum_ deep in his bones, so he kicks off the floor with a series of barrel leaps, flying, spinning, weightless and free, works off the momentum with a series of turns, easy and light, and ends up in fourth position on the other side of the room, a few feet away from where Alex is leaning back against the barre with a smile on his face.

“Well, _hello_ there,” Alex says, pushing off the barre to close the gap between them.

“ _Hey_.” The corners of Michael’s lips turn up of their own accord.

“You done showing off?”

“I might have a few more moves up my sleeve.”

Alex is fully in his space now, his face inches away from Michael’s own. “Wanna demonstrate?”

He can _feel_ Alex’s breath tickle against his skin, they’re standing so damn close. And then even the little space separating them is gone and Alex’s lips are on his, warm and soft and just a little demanding. Michael thinks he can lose himself in this feeling, and he feels just a little colder when Alex pulls away.

But Alex doesn’t _move_ away. He just _waits_ for Michael to make the next move, a raised eyebrow and the slightest tilt about his pink lips like it’s a challenge. So Michael moves forward, pulls him in even closer by the waist, and kisses him hard. Alex makes a little noise and parts his lips in invitation as he tangles his fingers in Michael’s hair and tugs a little. Michael’s hands dare to move a little lower just as Alex pulls away from his mouth and starts to pay attention to a _particularly_ sensitive spot on his neck instead. Michael’s lost to sensation, feeling Alex’s touch and touching Alex, but they both jerk back to reality when Alex’s phone starts ringing.

Alex pulls away, glances at the clock in alarm. “I have to go.”

Michael tries very hard to keep a neutral face, not show his disappointment as Alex rushes to grab his things. “I’ll see you at company rehearsal.”

“After,” Alex says, a little breathless. “After. Dinner?”

Michael smirks. “You buying?”

* * *

He feels like an ass. No, he _is_ an ass. Because Max and Maria are dancing their hearts out at the center of the rehearsal studio, absolutely _nailing_ their partner work. Maria’s doing battle with her feet barely returning to the ground in between leaps and turns and lifts, and Max fights her through it, all the while being the arms keeping her aloft. Then, Max transforms, from _Taurus,_ the bull into the god, _Zeus,_ and he and Maria dance in sync for a while before the corps enfolds him into their ranks, as _Taurus_ joins the constellations of the night sky. Maria gets the last solo of the piece, and she is _perfection_ as she dances, landing every turn perfectly, leaping like she’s not subject to gravity like the rest of them, then gracefully exits stage right.

And Michael’s not really watching _any_ of it. Instead, he’s thinking about Alex, about _dinner._ About that _kiss,_ earlier in the rehearsal studio. He’s trying to picture where they’ll go, what they’ll talk about, if Alex will kiss him again. Like he’s a giggly sixteen year old instead of a grown man. It’s pathetic and unprofessional and he _absolutely_ deserves the pointy elbows Liz occasionally aims at him when he slips too far away from the ballet.

Before he knows it, rehearsal is over, and Alex is catching his elbow as the company heads out for the night. Liz pats him on the shoulder sympathetically as she leaves, because to anyone that’s _not_ Alex and Michael, it looks like Alex is just holding Michael back to talk through some corrections or make him run through something again. Which is probably why Liz pairs the sympathy with a supernaturally fast walking speed so she can leave the building before she gets roped into an after-hours rehearsal. Fair. He’d probably do the same, in her place.

“I need fifteen to pack up and give my notes to Mimi. Meet me by your truck?”

“How do you know I still drive the truck?”

Alex just grins at him and walks away.

* * *

Turns out, Alex makes it a snappy fourteen, and knocks on the passenger window with an overstuffed canvas bag in hand. 

Michael unlocks the car, then buckles his seatbelt and turns the key. “Where are we headed?”

Alex doesn’t give him a _location_ so much as he gives him vague directions until they end up somewhere in the middle of the desert, miles past city limits. They hop out in sync, and Alex waits for Michael to pop open the back before swinging in the bag and starting to unpack it. He’s got food and wine and a couple of blankets, one of which he spreads on the truck bed before tugging Michael up to join him on it.

“Look at you, Mr. Fancy.”

“I’d have brought candles, but I didn’t want the extra light.”

“Should I be offended?”

Alex just laughs and lays back at the blankets, pulls at Michael’s hand until he does the same. “Just figured we could look at the stars.”

Michael turns to look at Alex instead, smiling at his relaxed and easy expression, the way his eyes were tracing invisible lines between the stars. He drinks it in, then looks up, trying to follow where Alex’s finger is tracing.

“That one’s _Draco,”_ Alex says in the barest whisper.

“So’s this,” Michael says in the same _hush,_ gesturing down at himself, referencing his character from the ballet. Alex laughs out loud at that, not soft or quiet, but a deep, loud, belly laugh, one that has Michael joining in too.

“I think I like this one better.” Alex rolls over to press against Michael’s side, fingers on his jaw to turn his face toward him.

Michael wraps an arm around Alex’s waist and kisses him, smiling when he feels Alex smiling into it, too. “Glad to hear it.”

**Author's Note:**

> The quote in the summary is a slightly edited translation -- the full quote in the original hindi and an english translation can be found [here](https://www.bollywoodlife.com/youtube-2/shahrukh-khans-om-shanti-om-dialogues-we-love-47395/)
> 
> Say hello on [tumblr](https://bean-me-up.tumblr.com/) <3


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